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POEMS 



By 
MRS. ELIZABETH MARKHAM 

An Oregon Pioneer of 1 847-1 857 




Portland, Oregon 

THE J. K. GILL COMPANY 

1921 



POEMS 

By 
MRS. ELIZABETH MARKHAM 

An Oregon Pioneer of 1 847-1 857 




Portland, Oregon 

THE J. K. GILL COMPANY 

1921 






Dedicated to 

by the 
OREGON PIONEER ASSOCIATION 



'^ (o l^ "5 "A 4, 



FOREWORD 

THE VISIT OF EDWIN MARKHAM to his 
native land revives many pleasant and interest- 
ing recollections. As a child of five he went away 
with his parents. Now he returns as a mature man 
who has achieved a world-wide fame that reflects 
honor upon his family, distinction upon the place of 
his birth, and is most gratifying to its citizenship. 

As another son of an Oregon Pioneer, I trust it 
will not be regarded as temerity on my part, if I aid 
in extending to our distinguished visitor a hearty and 
fitting welcome. A prompting incentive is the fact 
that his parents and mine made the long and 
wearisome journey across the plains in 1847 in the 
same immigrant train. 

His mother was held in high esteem by mine. I 
have frequently heard her speak of Mrs. Markham's 
culture and ability; also of her literary work, some 
of which was done under peculiar difficulties during 
their long hegira westward. She told me that I could 
recognize Mrs. Markham's writings by the initials 
"E. M."— Elizabeth Markham. 

When I first met Edwin Markham, July 8, 1915, at 
a reception tendered him at the Panama-Pacific Ex- 
position, San Francisco, in the Oregon building, I 
related the foregoing and other incidents, which nat- 
urally interested him very much. He requested me 
to get as many of his mother's poems which had been 
published in Oregon as I could. Agreeable thereto, 
I have gladly collated the accompanying poems, and 
given the names and dates of the papers in which 
they were published, all of which were found in the 
archives of the Oregon Historical Society. 

Oregon admires, loves and welcomes her distin- 
guished son. J p ^gg 



[5] 
A Contrast on Matrimony 

1 The man must lead a happy life, 

2 Free from matrimonial chains, 

3 Who is directed by a wife 

4 Is sure to suffer for his pains. 

1 Adam could find no solid peace, 

2 When Eve was given for a mate, 

3 Until he saw a woman's face 

4 Adam was in a happy state. 

1 In all the female face, appear 

2 Hypocrisy, deceit and pride ; 

3 Truth, darling of a heart sincere, 

4 Ne'er known in woman to reside. 

1 What tongue is able to unfold 

2 The falsehoods that in woman dwell ; 

3 The worth in woman we behold, 

4 Is almost imperceptible. 



[6] 

1 Cursed be the foolish man, I say, 

2 Who changes from his singleness ; 

3 Who will not yield to woman's sway 

4 Is sure of perfect blessedness. 

To advocate the ladies' cause, you will read the first 
and third, and second and fourth lines together. 

E. M. 

Oregon Spectator, June 15, 1848. 



L7J 
Hearts May Warm the Winter 

Hearts may warm the winter, 
Hearts will melt the snow ; 

If, while hopes are freezing. 
Friendship be not so. 

Worlds of ice may bound us. 
Hearts will break their chains, 

While our friends surround us, 
While their love remains. 

Household gods lie scattered 
Round the ruined hearth. 

Do we mourn them shattered, 
Do we weep their dearth? 

No ; if love but cheer us 
On our withered way ; 

Friendship, too, keep near us, 
What of their decay? 

E. M. 

Oregon Spectator, January 11, 1849. 



[8] 

The Maiden's Dream 

On the banks of the Willamette 

She saw her love standing, 

In the shade of the tall evergreen ; 

So dear to her heart 

Was that form so commanding, 

But the dark waters rolling between. 

She saw him awaiting 

Most gracefully bowing. 

And hastened that she in return — 

Some token might give him. 

Of confidence in him. 

With rapture her bosom did burn. 

And as she was straying 
The zephyrs were saying, 
As they float at the brink of the stream- 
Oh, maiden, forbear. 
Not a sigh or a tear. 
When, lo, she awoke from her dream. 

E. M. 

Oregon Spectator, February 22, 1849. 



[9] 
Imaginary Ship Wreck 

By MRS. E. MARKHAM 

What sound is it arrests our ear? 
Is it the accents of despair, 
It is the sufferers' dying prayer, 
A tempest on the sea. 

The howHng winds, the distant cry. 
The piercing shrieks, the tearful eye. 
The seas are rolHng; must they die 
And perish in despair? 

Is there no hope, no arm to save, 
On the land or on the wave ; 
Dangers, death or distance brave, 
To chain the tyrant down ? 

Again they bend their suppliant knee. 
And gazing fearful on the sea, 
Imploring heaven to set them free, 
And bring them safe to land. 



[10] 

Confusion reigns mid such alarms, 
To give up life with all its charms ; 
To sink in death's cold icy arms, 
With terror must be fraught. 

On that frail bark one sparkling gem 
Outshines the costly diadem ; 
No royal blood, compared with him 
Is worth a transient thought. 

The heavens were lit, the lightnings gleam, 
And round their ship a fiery stream ; 
The ocean yawned — a fearful scream — 
She sank beneath the wave. 

The omen bird now flaps its wrings 
And tidings from the ocean brings 
O ! who can touch the trembling strings 
Or chaunt the funeral dirge. 

Oregon Spectator, October 18, 1849. 



[II] 

The Departure 

Adieu, adieu, the Ocean Bird 

Has took her flight to yonder bay, 

And ploughing through the foaming surge 
She bears from us our friends away. 

That glittering gold is dearly won, 
That disunites congenial minds. 

Our fathers, husbands, friends and sons, 
Have fled to California's mines. 

A weeping mother bathed in tears. 
In black despair her bosom swells. 

And wrapped in dark foreboding fears, 
A mother's love, what tongue can tell. 

It's like the thornless, budding rose. 
Its treasures are as yet untold ; 

It's lasting as Mount Helen's snows. 
And purer than the virgin gold. 



[12] 

She heeds no dangers, toil, or death, 
Nor fears to search the desert's wild. 

And in her last expiring breath, 
Her richest prayer is for her child. 

The father leaves his happy home, 
Let fancy paint the parting scene. 

His weeping consort sad and lone, 
The troubled ocean rolls between. 

He leaves the babes he loves so dear. 
To search for wealth that golden ore, 

One lingering look, a sigh, a tear, 
They part, perhaps to meet no more. 

Blow, blow, ye winds, a pleasant gale, 
And speed them on their trackless way. 

Ye Ocean Bird, unfurl your sails, 
Till safe in San Francisco's Bay. 

Time's rolling wheels pass swiftly by, 
And usher in that happy morn. 

On every breeze we'll send a sigh, 
A prayer to God for their return. 

Oregon Spectator, November 1, 1849. 



[13] 
My Native Home 

By MRS. ELIZABETH MARKHAM 

The thoughts of home my bosom thrill, 
I love my native country still — 
Her flowing streams and gushing rills, 
Her sunshine and her storms. 

And birds of sweet melodious strains, 
Her summer showers and autumn rains ; 
I love her wide extended plains. 
In nature's loveliest forms. 

Her flowing rivers wide, and deep, 
In majesty and grandeur sweep 
To the Atlantic's rolling deep. 
Their tribute there to pay. 

And when my heart was sad and lone. 
Through her sweet groves I love to roam 
To hear the wild bird's merry tone — 
Her plaintive melody. 



[14] 

I loved the briar and roses fair, 
That scent alike the morning air ; 
I loved to kneel with those in prayer — 
Heirs of immortal rest. 

To guide my steps a father near, 
And brothers kind and sisters dear 
To kiss away the falling tear. 
With arms of love caressed. 

Like incense on the morning air 
Arose for me a mother's prayer, 
And time rolled on without a care 
To check my youthful glee. 

Where now's the cherished ones I knew ! 
They have vanished like the morning dew, 
Tho' scenes are changed, yet fancy drew 
Their portraits on the mind. 

A marble slab both long and wide 
Now marks the spot, so sure a guide, 
Where parents sleeping side by side. 
The weeping willows bend. 



[15] 

Tho' now concealed beneath the earth 
They taught me — O! their matchless worth- 
To love the land that gave me birth — 
The banners of the brave. 

The names of those illustrious ones, 
Who fought bold Briton's haughty sons. 
Their blood was spilt, the conquest won, 
Columbia's sons were free. 

Their deathless fame, — that patriot band — 

In golden letters truth shall stand 

While Stars and Stripes sweep sea and land, 

Our land of liberty. 
Oregon City, November i6, 1849. 

Oregon Spectator, November 29, 1849. 



[i6] 
Voice of Intemperance 

I rove through the city 
Or prowl on the plain, 

And boast of the innocent 
Victims I've slain ; 

Of my widows and orphans, 
The tears they have shed ; 

Of desolate hovels, 

And hearts that have bled ; 

Of minds once enlightened, 
In the ranks of the brave ; 

Of the fate of the monarch, 
Or the death of the slave. 

When I ride on the ocean 

Or sail on the lake, 
I mark down the millions 

That folloAv mv wake. 



[17] 

To the mother that weeps 
O'er the fate of her son, 

I boast of the chivalrous 
Deeds I have done^ 

The oceans of blood 
And tears I have spilt, 

And witnessed cruelty, 
Sorrow and guilt. 

At a breath or a touch 
Of my magical wand. 

The mighty are fallen — 
Their wealth I command. 

The home of the happy 
Is wrecked at my name ; 

The spoils of the wealthy 
Is the height of my fame; 

The brow of the beautiful, 

Lovely and gay, 
I have mantled with shame 

And stamped with dismay. 



[i8] 

The maid on her lover 
Looks down with disdain 

For the ties that had bound them 
I had severed in twain. 

The pride of man's heart, 

Her music and song, 
Is turned into wailing 

As I entered the throng. 

The voice of his children, 
As they sport in the dale, 

At the sound of the revel 
Is swept from the vale. 

But I felt my influence 

Begin to decay. 
When the cold water army 

Was set in array. 

But her ranks are so broken 
Her chieftains are fled, 

That Fve taken fresh courage 
And hold up my head. 



[19] 

My health is improving, 

I feel no alarms, 
Since the cold water army 

Have laid down their arms. 

E. M. 
Oregon City, December 20, 1849. 

Oregon Spectator, December 27, 1849. 



"n.: 



%. 



[20] 

The Dream of Ambition 

By MRS. ELIZABETH MARKHAM 

The dream of ambition ! Ye sloth, hear the sound, 
Cease digging in darkness like moles in the ground ! 
Break off those strong fetters ! lift up your dull eye ; 
And learn ye this lesson, the sun shines on high. 

No longer go creeping like snails on the ground ; 
Preferment by sluggards has never been found. 
The dream of ambition, young man, hear the call. 
Nor suffer intemperance your souls to enthrall. 

Be wise, shun the viper, it wounds you, it kills — 
The poisonous infection produced by the still. 
Disdain such pollution, stand firm on your guard ! 
In life a high station, in death a reward ! 

Washington and Franklin, have you read of their 

names? 
How they arose from obscurity to a pinnacle of fame. 
Till their fame does resound upon sea as on shore? 
At the name of our Washington how the cannons do 

roar. 



[21] 

Napoleon's ambition would conquer a world, 
But down from that pinnacle the tyrant was hurled. 
Let youth then take warning; seek fame and renown 
By conquering their follies, their vices bring down. 

No ignorance or darkness pervades o'er that mind 
Where talent, ambition and virtue combine. 
O ! glorious ambition ! O ! who could forbear 
To nourish that plant in his bosom with care? 

Its a gem worth possessing, when well understood. 
It leadeth man up to the throne of his God ; 
He will gird on his armour, prepare for the fray. 
Lose life, perhaps honor, in winning the day. 

He will never cease rowing up the river of fame 
Till his bark reach the fountain — the summit attain. 
The dream will cease then, and the tale will be told 
And engraved on his tombstone in letters of gold. 

Oregon City, January i, 1850. 

Oregon Spectator, January 10, 1850. 



[22] 

Woman 

Written for amusement and handed to the Spectator 
only by especial request. 

No light that shines in yonder sky 
Can cheer the soul like woman's eye ; 
No depth of seas, no shifting sands 
Contain in them such wealth for man. 

Nor earth can with her mines impart 
No purer gold than woman's heart ; 
The orphan boy by her is fed, 
She lingers round the dying bed. 

And man while sinking to the tomb, 

She cheers him on through death's dark gloom 

By her unfeigned and gentle love, 

She makes the dying pillow smooth. 

And with her hands and tender care, 
She forms the shroud for him to wear; 
And with her sweet consoling voice 
She makes the sorrowing heart rejoice. 



[23 J 

With sleepless eye and noiseless tread, 
She guards the nursling's cradle bed ; 
And woman's love is a holy light, 
Time cannot dim its radiance bright. 

Distance nor dangers, threatening, smart. 
Cool the affections of her heart ; 
She visits where the prisoners dwell, 
In their low, damp and darkened cell. 

Kneels at their couch, Avith streaming eye 
Points them to mansions up on high ; 
The scene on Calvary she explains, 
The dying thief's repenting strains. 

The bleeding Lamb, the glittering spear, 
And Roman soldiers hovering near ; 
The crown of thorns in mockery made 
And placed upon his kingly head, 

His acts of love, his dying breath 
While in the agonies of death, 
Cries to the thief, thy soul shall be 
This day in paradise with me. 



[24] 

Yes ! Woman's love is a holy light, 
Time cannot dim its radiance bright ; 
A brilliant star that God has given, 
To lead man's erring feet to Heaven. 

In every age since time began, 
Her chastity unrivalled stands ; 
And virtue's reins she will control, 
Till stars and planets cease to roll. 

E. M. 

Oregon Spectator, March 21, 1850. 



[25] 

Road to Oregon 

We left our friends in foreign lands — 

Our native country dear; 
In sorrow, took the parting hand 

And shed the falling tear. 

For Oregon, three cheers they gave. 

From us to disengage — 
Fearing that we might find our graves 

Amidst the sand and sage; 

Or met by cruel savage bands, 
And slaughtered on the way — 

Their spectred visions, hand in hand, 
Would round our pathway play. 

To the Pacific's temperate clime 

Our journey soon began — 
Traversing through the desert sands 

Towards the setting sun. 



[26] 

On Platte the rocks like battlements, 
Were towering tall and high ; 

The frightened elk and antelope 
Before our trains would fly. 

And herds of buffalo appear — 

On either side they stand; 
Far as our telescope could reach, 

One thick and clustering band. 

O'er sinking sands and barren plains , 
Our frantic teams would bound — 

While some were wounded, others slain, 
Mid wild terrific sound. 

And in these lone and silent dells 
The winds were whispering low ; 

And moaning to the Pilgrims, tell 
Their by-gone tales of woe. 

Deserted on those mountains wild, 

No ear to hear his cry — 
Near by a spring, on a rude bluff. 

They laid poor Scott to die. 



[2/] 

Unaided grief and blighted hope, 
Midst savage beasts of prey — 

The fate of poor deserted Scott 
Is wrapped in mystery ! 

Our toils are done, our perils o'er — 

The weary pilgrims' band 
Have reached Columbia's fertile shore — 

That far-famed happy land. 

O'er mountains high and burning plains, 
Three thousand miles or more — 

We are here ; but who can e'er explain 
Or count the trials o'er? 

Such clouds of mist hang round the scene, 
O'er which we have no control ; 

It's like a half-remembered dream. 
Or tale that's long been told. 

E. M. 

Oregon City, December, 1850. 

Oregon Spectator, January 9, 1851. 



28 



Lines 

Composed whilst the Lot Whitcomb made her 
first ascent of the Rapids. 

Lot Whitcomb is coming! 

Her banners are flying — 
She walks up the rapids with speed ; 

She ploughs through the water, 

Her steps never falter — 
Oh ! that's independence, indeed. 

Old and young rush to meet her, 

Male and female, to greet her, 
And the waves lash the shore as they pass. 

Oh ! she's welcome, thrice welcome. 

To Oregon City ; 
Lot Whitcomb is with us at last. 

Success to the Steamer, 

Her Captain and crew ; 
She has our best wishes attained. 

Oh ! that she may never 

While running this river 
Fall back on the sand bar again. 

E. M. 

Oregon Spectator, June 5, 1851. 



[29] 

Friendship 

The rosy dreams of life may change, 

And death may bring affliction ; 
True friendship with her arms of love 
May hold us up from sinking. 

And friendship is a fountain where 
Springs up a Heaven-born treasure ; 
The heart o'ercharged with grief and care 
Count her a priceless treasure. 

Give us old friends with kindred minds, 
Tho' far from home we are straying; 
Tho' fortune frown and wealth decline, 
We'll grieve not their decaying. 

Tho' youth and beauty fade so soon, 
And death would seem so near us; 
Our morning sun go down at noon — 
May friends be there to cheer us. 

Within the altar of our hearts 

Our God to man has given 
The richest germ he could impart 

To be matured in Heaven. 



[30] 

Let others stretch their tiny arms 
And grasp for fame so fleeting; 
For me, I own the blissful charms 
Of Friendship's holy greeting. 

Oh what of all those lordly halls, 

Or elevated stations? 
We ask no stronger, safer walls 
Around our habitations 

Than friendship's star whose radiant beams 
Our feeble steps attending; 
Or golden crowns all set with pearls, 
Their various colors blending. 

And when the sands of life have run — - 

Our feeble voices failing, 
Our labors and our toils are done. 
And we are homeward tending. 

When time with us draws near the close 
And all our days are numbered. 
Our hearts forgiving all our foes 
Lie down in dreamless slumber, 



[31] 

May loving friends stand round our bed 

To soothe our dying pillow, 
And Jesus hold our sinking head 

While crossing Jordan's billow. 

E. M. 

Oregon Statesman, June 13, 1851. 



